


just pretend, just for tonight

by Pawprinter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Light Angst, Like very light angst, Minor John Murphy/Raven Reyes, Oh no!, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, they're trapped in a bunker, wonder what they're going to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawprinter/pseuds/Pawprinter
Summary: Clarke and Bellamy have a good thing going. Or, maybe notgoodconsidering she hated his guts, but their relationship (if she could even call it that) was steady, stable, and predictable. Clarke refused to let that change, no matter how good he looked in his Halloween costume.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 45
Kudos: 217
Collections: bellarkescord halloween gift exchange





	just pretend, just for tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfheartedgirl33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfheartedgirl33/gifts).



> This fic was written for Poppy for the 2020 Bellarke Discord Halloween Gift Exchange! Thank you to Krissy for hosting such a fun and well-organized event!
> 
> Warnings: mentions of murder because ~Halloween~ but there is no actual murder or murder attempts. We're all just fluff here. And also a warning for coarse language!
> 
> Enjoy!

> **10:26PM  
>  31%  
>  Words spoken: 5**

_Clarke had to remind herself that she was doing this for Raven._

She didn’t want to be in a cramped house with a bunch of sweaty and _warm_ strangers because that was disgusting. She didn’t even want to be out on Halloween to begin with — it was her least favourite holiday; a trait that was seemingly passed down from her mother to her at a young age. She definitely didn’t want to be _here_ at _this_ party tonight because she knew for a fact there was one very annoying, very rude, and very popular Classics major attending this party too.

But she was doing it for her friend who was here to try and score with her crush. 

Really, what was the big deal if Raven’s crush’s roommate was also here. It was a big party, right? 

She could avoid him. 

_Definitely._

That sentiment went out the window as soon as the door to the basement wouldn’t open and his breath was on the back of her neck.

“Can you take a few steps back?” she requested, turning briefly to glare at him.

“Can you _open the damn door,_ Princess? Jesus.” Blake did as requested though and retreated down the staircase a few steps. “Can we pick up the pace here?”

She refused to comment and tried to push the door open again. When the handle didn’t even turn, she knew they were fucked.

A headache was already brewing behind her eyes that had nothing to do with the ungodly amount of sugar she consumed upstairs, but it had everything to do with the man behind her.

“Blake,” she snapped, her teeth grinding together, “what did you do?”

“Me? You’re the one struggling there, Griffin.” He blew out a harsh breath. “Grab the handle and _turn.”_

“Oh, you want to have a go? Fine. Be my guest.” 

Clarke stepped to the side and swept grandly towards the closed door at the top of the stairs. He bumped her shoulder as he walked past her and it took all her willpower not to make a comment about it. 

She felt the slightest bit of sick satisfaction when he shoved against the door, only for it not to budge.

Maybe it was because the ice bucket was digging into her hip, or maybe it was because he already annoyed her in their very brief meeting in the basement that consisted of a whole five words, or maybe it was because it was simply Bellamy Blake.

_But she laughed._

She laughed when he turned to her, with his expression miserable and his shoulders deflated. 

There was nothing amusing about this situation. 

There really wasn’t.

But when life gives you lemons, it’s sometimes best to punt the lemon and laugh when it hits someone in the back. 

(Or maybe something a little less violent.)

“Struggling, Blake?” she asked. “Hm, that’s weird. Maybe you should grab the handle and turn.”

He glanced at her, not amused. “It’s locked.”

“Oh, really? Didn’t know that.” 

She shifted the ice around on her hip and reached towards the handle again, turning it in one final desperate attempt. Blake leaned against the wall, trying to put as much distance between their two bodies as the stairwell would allow. 

When it was clear the door wasn’t going to be opening anytime soon, she turned to him with narrowed eyes and a tight jaw.

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were the last one to use the door,” she pointed out. “I came down here first and you followed me, so—”

“I didn’t _follow you._ Trust me, if I knew you were down here, I wouldn’t have come. I just noticed there wasn’t any ice and I know Jasper keeps it down here and—”

“Cool story, but I’m not hearing how you managed to lock the door behind you,” she pointed out. 

“I didn’t.”

“Clearly, someone did because—” she smacked the door with an open palm, “it’s locked.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Sherlock Holmes, you’re unbelievable.” 

“Don’t quote Niall Horan to me.”

“You’d rather me quote some Homer? Plato? Hesiod?”

“You know what, I really should’ve seen that coming.” Clarke took her frustration out on the door, desperately banging on it and hoping _someone_ could hear it over the blaring music on the other side. “You just love your Greek poets, don’t you?”

“I sure hope so, considering that’s my major. You don’t love your English poets and writers? Shakespeare not your forte?”

“No, actually. I don’t go around _quoting_ them in my free time.” She banged on the door a few more times before turning back to him. “Are you just going to stand there?”

There was a brief moment where both of them just _stared_ at the other, both wearing varying expressions of annoyance.

Maybe she was being too harsh towards him, but her patience was very thin when it came to Blake. She lost track of how many times they argued in class and at parties, and she wasn’t one to go about ignoring patterns. 

Blake was insufferable and the best defence was a good offence, or so she was told.

“Scoot,” he told her, his voice dry. She inched to the side to make room for him at the top stair and he joined her in banging against the metal door. “You know, this isn’t my fault.”

“I never said it was.”

“You did, actually.”

“Well, out of the two of us, you’re more at fault than I am,” she insisted. “You were the last at the door coming down here.”

“You were the first to the door going back up. Maybe _you_ did something to the door.” She caught his horribly cocky expression out of the corner of her eye. “Trying to get some alone time with me, Princess? You know, you could’ve just _asked._ I would’ve been happy to oblige.”

She laughed. “Maybe those lines work on others, but you’re going to have to try harder with me.”

He paused, his knuckles hovering inches from the door, and he grinned. She wished the lightbulb above them could just _burn out already_ so she wouldn’t have to see _his annoying face_ and his _grin_ and his _eyes_ and—

“So you’re saying there’s a chance?” he returned teasingly, and Clarke decided it wouldn’t matter if the lightbulb was burnt out or not — she could _hear_ his cockiness.

She refused to give him a reaction. 

She refused to play his games.

Clarke turned to him, her expression cold and her chin lifted. 

“Never.”

  
  


* * *

> **10:38PM  
>  ** **29%  
>  ** **Words spoken: too many**

Clarke was the first one to give up.

She retreated back down the stairs after several minutes of banging on the door, doing her best to ignore her stinging knuckles and rapid heartbeat. It was while she was sitting with her back against the large freezer that she convinced herself that her heart was pounding because she didn’t want to be trapped in a basement that looked like it should’ve belonged in a campy Halloween movie.

Really.

It was dark, and _moist,_ and had a layer of _dust_ on the floor, and a _freaking spider_ ran across her toes.

It was horrifying.

It had nothing to do with being in a cramped space with Bellamy Blake.

_Really._

Really.

From where she sat in the dark, it looked like he was an actor on stage putting on a show. The single lightbulb was just bright enough to illuminate his body and the top five stairs. And _of course_ he went all-out on his Halloween costume, with a white toga and thick eyeliner and a gold leaf crown. The light managed to highlight his features and emphasize his collarbones and—

She turned away, annoyed with herself for letting her thoughts get away from her _again._

It was fine to acknowledge the fact that Blake was an attractive guy, right? It was an impartial observation — not an opinion. 

Right?

_Right??_

As if to remind herself exactly why she hated him, she spoke, trying to goad a reaction out of him. “They can’t hear you.”

He turned to her. She spent enough time watching his expressions in class to know that he was annoyed, despite barely being able to see the lines of his face through the dark.

“Well, knocking until someone rescues me is better than doing nothing.”

Clarke shrugged. “Or you can save yourself a hoarse voice and sore hand and _just give up._ Someone will realize they’re out of ice eventually and they’ll find us down here. No need to stress.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You look pretty stressed to me.”

“I just want _out._ I’m not stressed.” He leaned against the door with his back and she couldn’t tell if he was trying to break through it or if he was simply tired. “You know, you give up too easily, Griffin.”

“I guess I know when to save myself time and effort and call it quits.”

Her idle questions from earlier were answered when he slowly slid down the door to sit on the top step. They continued to stare at each other, neither knowing exactly what to say, and the tension mounted.

As if the same thought entered their minds at the same time, they both pulled out their phones.

Clarke cursed her past self for not plugging in her phone while she was getting ready. Why didn’t she just plug in her phone when she wasn’t using it? Why wait until it hit the dreaded 1% to find a charger? It didn’t make any sense and yet—

Here she was.

Slowly plowing ahead to 1%.

Now stuck in a basement with Bellamy Blake.

Clarke opened and closed Instagram a few times, each time loading to a photo posted by Fox earlier that night. Finally, on her last attempt, an error message came up.

_Unable to refresh feed._

Of course. 

Of course, she wouldn’t have service right now. _Of fucking course._ It was so typical that she was tempted to laugh if she wasn’t so annoyed by it. She couldn’t call Raven for a rescue. Hell, she couldn’t even distract herself by scrolling through social media until someone came and opened the door for more ice. It was just her and Blake and a dark basement.

It was as if the universe hated her. 

Her gaze flicked towards Blake, who was standing again with his phone held high above his head.

That managed to break through her annoyance. She let out a tiny snort.

His eyes fell on her. “I’m trying to get service to call someone.”

“I see that. I don’t have any either.” He didn't budge from his position. “I don’t think we’re going to get any service down here if we don’t have any right now.”

“I’m practically upstairs though,” Blake complained. “I had service in the kitchen and the kitchen is _right there.”_ He gestured to the wall, where the kitchen stood on the other side.

“Jasper’s always saying that his house is built on top of a bunker,” Clarke pointed out. “Maybe that isn’t a complete lie.”

The single room she sat in _was_ pretty bunker-like. Apparently, his parents were the type that liked to prepare for an apocalypse-level event. The large store of canned goods on the adjacent wall of the freezer seemed to indicate as much. Was the basement being built like a bunker really that far fetched?

“Yeah, well, it looks like the apocalypse came early. I’m stuck down here with you.”

Clarke pulled a face and turned back to her phone, resolved to ignore him until they were pulled out from the bunker basement. She didn’t have the energy or the want to put up with Blake any longer than she had to. She knew from experience that the longer she tried to have a conversation with him, the more red she saw.

She clicked open a game on her phone and began to play.

* * *

> **10:52PM  
>  16%  
>  Words spoken: not enough**

The tension was worse.

It was funny, in a way, that the harder she tried to ignore something, the more she found herself _unable_ to ignore it.

Like Blake. She was attune to every move he made — every shift of his clothes — every annoyed sigh — every feeble attempt at knocking.

She couldn’t ignore the tension either. It was _suffocating._ She idly wondered if Jasper’s bunker had proper oxygen scrubbers because the air around her felt _heavy_ and crushing, but—

No.

That was just the effect Bellamy Blake had on her.

She really didn’t believe in fate, or destiny, or soulmates, or anything like that because there was no proof. The only thing that made her consider that _maybe_ all that stuff was real was Bellamy Blake.

_It was written in the stars that they’d hate each other._

The first time they met was during the office hours of their shared Classics course. She’d seen him — or, rather, _heard him_ — during the lectures so she knew _of him,_ but it wasn’t until that day that she had a strong opinion about him. She was a first-year taking a second-year course and apparently that was _shocking_ to him. He was an absolute jerk, acting all surprised and concerned and implying that she was going to flunk out when _he was only a year above her_ and _he didn’t even fucking know her._

Besides, he was at the professor’s office to get help, too, but that was apparently lost on him.

Maybe it was just a few comments on his part, but it was enough to put him on her radar. Every time he spoke in class — which was _every freaking lecture —_ she’d have to grit her teeth just a little bit.

His first impression could’ve been brushed away if he was a decent person in class, but he was one of _those_ students. He sat at the front of the lecture hall, would jump in and add his opinion on _everything,_ got the class off-topic, and debated interpretations of Ovid and Homer with the professor. It might’ve been interesting if he hadn’t made her late to her biology lecture so many times, and if he didn’t act so pretentious outside of class.

When she finished that course, he was one of many parts that she wasn’t going to miss. Of course, when _he_ ended up being the roommate of Raven’s crush, she once again decided that fate might’ve been real — but only if the Fates hated her.

Murphy was an ass half of the time, but he was funny and witty and made Raven happy, so he was easy to put up with.

Blake came as a part of that package though. It was times like this that she wished they could go back to those Classics lectures, just so she wouldn’t have to put up with him and his attitude one-on-one.

_At least he stopped knocking._

“How long until someone comes down here?” he asked. He had turned to pacing up and down the top three steps and it was slowly making Clarke dizzy. “It shouldn’t be long, right?”

“How am I supposed to know?” she countered. “We’re both trapped in here. You know just as much as I do.” He huffed at her answer. “Besides, what does it matter? We’re trapped in a basement. We’re not going to die; we have food and water. Even if it takes a few hours, who cares?” A pause, then, “I mean, _I do_ because I don’t want to be here with you for a few hours, but—”

“I have somewhere to be,” he said, cutting her off. From his tone, she knew there was no room for questions there. 

She didn’t want to poke a bear by pressing, even if it would’ve provided the _tiniest_ bit of entertainment to bicker. Clarke might’ve hated him and they might’ve argued over everything, but she wasn’t going to be _mean_ to him. There was a clear line there and she wasn’t going to cross it.

(Don’t cross that line with him.)

(Don’t cross **_any_ ** line with him.)

“I have somewhere to be, too,” she responded.

“My place is a little more important than a party, Griffin. I have people _waiting_ on me.”

She wasn’t too sure he meant to come off as such an asshole, considering his insults were usually less direct. Then again, she didn’t really know him, did she?

“Glad to know the world revolves around you,” Clarke said. “Maybe I have important places to go with important people. You don’t know.”

There was a long pause — long enough that she was almost convinced he wasn’t going to answer at all.

Then, he gave her a stiff nod.

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know.”

Those words were more of an olive branch than anything he’d offered before. 

It was shocking.

Even _more_ shocking was when he walked down the remainder of the stairs and sat on the last step, effectively closing the majority of the space between the two of them. With both of their legs outstretched, she could _almost_ tap her toe against his if she stretched.

She pulled her legs in and rested her chin on her knee.

“This sucks,” he commented, his head rolling back. The light reflected off of his golden accessories and— _fuck,_ was that _glitter_ on his cheekbones? Whatever it was caught the light perfectly, making him look like he really was right out of one of Homer’s epics. She forced her gaze off of him. “I was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago.”

“Hm.” 

Clarke’s gaze traced the wall filled with cans of food, her sight straining to make out the colours on the labels, just to give herself something to do other than talk with him.

“This room smells like a library.” She didn’t comment and Blake continued to talk to himself. “It’s the dust. I _hate_ dust. My mom’s allergic and it gets _everywhere_ and it just appears out of nowhere, you know?” A pause, then, “Your mansion ever get dusty, Princess?”

“If you’re talking about my place with Raven, no. There’s not enough _space_ for dust to settle back home. If you’re talking about my mom’s place, which is _creepy,_ by the way, then I wouldn’t know. It’s not like I pop by there every few days to check on the dust situation.”

Blake made a sound and blew out a long breath. He glanced up at the door. “You think someone’s going to come soon? I feel like someone’s coming soon.”

“Sure. Whatever you think.” Clarke’s fingers brushed against some of the dust on the floor. There was _just_ enough light to see the difference between the concrete and the dust, so she began to push it around with her finger, tracing images onto the floor. “Just don’t hold your breath. Do we really think someone’s going to notice they’re out of ice up there? I love Jasper, but I don't think he’s one to care about the details of a party.”

“Fuck, and Murphy hates cold drinks.” Blake let out a bark of laughter. “Isn’t that really weird? He keeps a pitcher of water on the counter because he doesn’t like cold water. Who doesn’t like cold water?”

“I mean… Murphy doesn’t, I guess.”

“It’s weird and we’re screwed.”

And then they were plunged into silence once again.

* * *

> **11:04PM  
>  8%  
>  Murder attempts: 0**

She blew out a long breath and refreshed Instagram a few times, hoping for a different result each time. The service was still missing, the photo of Fox remained at the top of her feed, and she was getting desperate for something to keep her distracted and busy. Blake had already attempted to make conversation with her and she could _feel his eyes on her face_ and she _needed to not do this._

Clarke really didn’t want to be here, making small talk with the one person who managed to drive her up a wall, on a night she already hated. She didn’t want to bond with Blake, not when he was so stuck up, and especially not when they had already spent a full year being _this._

_(Whatever the hell ‘this’ was.)_

How had it only been thirty minutes since they discovered they were trapped down here? It felt like she should have aged a hundred years. She was _exhausted_ and _had a headache_ and—

“You know,” Blake said, breaking the tense silence they had fallen into, “we should at least _talk_ if we’re going to be trapped down here together.”

_Fuck._

Clarke lifted her chin. “I don’t want to be your friend.”

“I don’t want to be your friend either, Griffin, but my phone is almost dead and I’m _bored._ Please, just put me out of my misery and _talk_ to me.” He stretched out on the steps and pouted. “I promise I’ll play nice if you play nice.”

“I honestly don’t know if that’s possible,” she told him. “Do you even know _how_ to be nice?”

“I’m nice.”

“Do you even know how to be nice _to me,”_ Clarke further clarified. “I’m pretty sure that we’ve been trying to murder each other ever since we met.”

He grinned widely at her — wide enough for her to notice just how _perfect_ his teeth were and how heart-stoppingly beautiful he looked when he smiled.

_Ugh._

“No murder tonight. I wouldn’t have an alibi and we’re the only two people down here. If only one of us comes up, there’s going to be some questions.” 

He was funny and she hated that.

“Alright, my night isn’t exactly going as planned and tomorrow’s going to suck because of it. We’re both stuck down here for a while — together and alone. Can we just… drop the hostility?”

The thing was… _she wanted to._

She wanted to drop the bickering and stop fighting and _talk,_ even if it was for only one night. But what they had was _good._ Or, not good, but it was steady and predictable, and that was what she _wanted._ It was what she _needed._

She didn’t want things to change. 

Things couldn’t change, not even for one night, or everything could come unraveling. 

She didn’t want to discover that he was actually not the horrible douche she made him out to be. She didn’t want to learn that they clicked. She didn’t want to deal with _certain thoughts_ that were only a brush away.

(Thoughts about his cocky grins, and his stunning lips, and his warm hands, and—)

“Let’s just… pretend to be strangers,” Blake said when she hesitated with her response. “Let’s pretend we don’t hate each other, just for tonight. Just while we’re here. Otherwise, I think I’ll cry; apparently I don’t do ‘being locked in bunkers’ very well.”

She laughed again despite wanting to remain stony. 

“Neither do I.”

Clarke studied his expression. Something inside of her shifted when she could _tell_ he was being genuine. 

“This is going to be the longest night of our lives if you don’t agree,” he warned playfully. “It’ll be painful. Imagine; just the two of us, sitting here, staring at each other, for _potentially hours._ It sounds like my own personal hell.”

“And here I thought talking to me for hours was your personal hell — it’s actually the exact opposite,” she countered dryly. “Better watch yourself, Blake, or you’ll be confessing your undying love for me next.”

“A friendly reminder that this is reality, Griffin, and not one of your dreams.”

She rolled her eyes and he grinned.

Finally, she broke.

“Fine,” she said. “We’re already dressed for it, so let’s play pretend.”

* * *

> **11:11PM  
>  6%  
>  Snacks consumed: 0**

“It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know Jasper’s mom, but I’m pretty sure she’ll kill you if you eat her emergency supply of food.”

Blake shone his flashlight in her direction, making her flinch away. He was currently rifling through the shelf of food, apparently unable to keep still for more than a few minutes at a time. In his hands, he held a cyan box of gummies with Scooby-Doo’s face on the front of it.

“Come on, Griffin. Ever heard of asking for forgiveness instead of permission? We’re having a _rough_ time right now. Get it? Ruff.”

It was hard not to crack a smile at his ridiculous pun.

“Hilarious.” She didn’t really have an argument against this, so she relented. “Fine. Toss one.”

Blake cracked open the box and pulled out a package of gummies. He examined the front with his flashlight, frowning.

“I could’ve swore these were called Scooby Snacks.”

“That’s what the treats are called on the show. These are just gummies.”

“Yeah, but the gummies were called Scooby Snacks. That’s why it was so cool. When I was a kid, it was like, ‘oh, I get it now. I get why Shaggy and Scooby are so willing to throw hands with a monster if they’re getting these as payment,’ you know?”

“No.”

“But if they’re not called Scooby Snacks, then how would these be the same thing they’re getting on the show?”

“Because it isn’t.”

Blake pulled a face and tossed her the package. “They changed the name recently. I promise.”

“They’ve never been called Scooby Snacks, Blake. You’re wrong.”

“Ever hear of the Mandela Effect, Griffin? It’s real and this is proof.”

Clarke scoffed and ripped open the pouch. “This isn’t _proof_ for anything. It just proves that you have a shitty memory.” She tossed a few gummies in her mouth. “Kinda surprised you watched Scooby-Doo growing up though. I just assumed you jumped from the womb singing about Homer.”

“Actually, as a baby, I had taste. I wasn’t singing about _Homer._ Euripides is where it’s at. Those plays? Fucking fantastic.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, but couldn’t find it in herself to attempt to make it look anything less than friendly. “I’m pretty sure the whole college knows of your love for Euripides, Blake. You only mentioned it thirty times in class.”

A wistful expression crossed Blake’s features. “That was a fun class. You know, I miss Professor Wallace sometimes, but then I remember the amount of things he got _wrong_ and then that feeling goes away.”

She understood _that_ well. 

It was as though the reminder of why he got under her skin in the first place was enough to push her right back to that moment. Whatever easiness that had begun to settle over them faded away.

Clarke tossed another gummy into her mouth and bit it a tad more aggressively than she intended.

“You know,” she said, “he _was_ the professor. Maybe you were the one in the wrong.”

He shot a confused look in her direction. “He called Medusa the villain. I think that says it all right there. And he was a jerk.”

“Yeah, well. You had a lot of opinions in that class.”

“It’s my major and he was a shitty teacher; of course I’m going to have a lot of opinions.” Blake settled back in his spot on the last step with three packages of Scooby Doo gummies in his hands. He dumped a full package into his mouth, all while maintaining eye contact with her. Suddenly, he stopped mid-chew and straightened. “Wait… is that why you hated me? Because I argued with the prof sometimes?”

“Sometimes?” she countered. “It was an everyday event, Blake.”

“Yeah, because he had something wrong to say everyday.” He blew out a long breath and watched her, his lips slightly parted and his eyebrows pushed together. “You know, I always wondered why you hated me. I mean, I’m fine with it because who cares, but… You hated me because of that class?”

“I thought you wanted people to hate you,” Clarke said. “You liked to argue with almost anybody during lectures.”

He pursed his lips. “Okay, point taken.” He tossed a gummy into his mouth. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“Oh, we’re playing twenty-one questions now? We’re back in high school?”

“Hey, nothing wrong with a little question and answer.” He pointed at her. “Was that why you hated me? Because I argued in class?”

“Of course. You were really annoying. You _are_ really annoying.” She grimaced. “You were always finding _something_ to contradict from Professor Wallace and it was really annoying, you know?”

“But I had good points.”

“You might’ve had good points, but there came a time where it was like… _holy fuck,_ just let him talk so we can all go home.”

Blake didn’t look offended like she expected him too. In fact, he looked amused by the whole situation. “But then you would’ve left class under the impression that Medusa deserved to be punished by Athena and that Medea was the villain of Jason’s story.” He shrugged. “Admit it, I saved your Classical mythology career.”

“I don’t have a career in Classical mythology.”

“Well, you _could_ after coming to those lectures.” His gaze lingered on her face for a beat longer than it should have. She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry though, for annoying you enough to turn you into my enemy.”

“That’s a little far.”

“Is it though?” He cooly lifted an eyebrow. “That class ended last December and, here we are, pretending like we don’t hate each other. You avoid me when you and Raven come over. We don’t talk. We don’t have each other on any social media.” He lifted his hands. “Which is fine, by the way. I’m just saying… we’re enemies. We don’t like each other.”

She let out a sound of acknowledgement and finished her pack of Scooby-Doo gummies. “Alright. You know why I don’t like you; you were a pretentious douche in class and you always made me feel like I was seconds away from failure by being a freshman. Now tell me why you don’t—”

“Wait,” he said, cutting her off. “I did what?”

“...What?”

“You said that I made you feel like you were seconds away from failing. You didn’t mention that before.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and shook his head. “I’m going to need more detail on that.”

“It’s fine, doesn’t matter. What _I_ want to know is why you hate me.”

“No, it does matter.” She had a feeling he wasn’t going to be letting this go anytime soon. “I don’t beg for things, but I will beg for this. You’ve got me waiting in anticipation over here, Griffin; put a guy out of his misery.”

“It’s really not a big deal.” Except, it was. “It was in Professor Wallace’s office. You were a dick to me.”

He stared blankly back at her. “I don’t remember being a dick to you. There, in the office. In other places, sure, but not _there.”_

“I don’t even care that much anymore, so—”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He let out a breathless laugh and inched forward even more. “You _do_ care, otherwise you wouldn’t remember it at all. Okay, so, you said Professor Wallace’s office. We were only in there once together, near midterms. You were talking to him about your paper that he graded you shitty on and I was there because he asked to see me after class, right? I distinctly remember you arguing with him _very_ well about why you deserved _at least_ an A on the term paper.” He paused. “I don’t remember being a dick though, which is why I’m confused. And concerned.”

She waved her hand, still trying to convince both Blake and herself that she didn’t really care what he said to her a year ago.

“You said that it was a second year course and I was a first year,” she said. “Like, I get it, it’s whatever. Just sucked, you know? Because out of everyone in that lecture, you were the most likely to stand up to the prof because _you always did,_ and yet you told me in the hall after that it’s just because I’m not smart enough.”

It looked as though he had been punched in the face.

“Uh. Holy shit.”

“Yeah, holy shit.”

“I mean… I would hate me if that happened to me,” he said, “but _I swear,_ I didn’t mean it like that. I _remember_ saying that because I was trying to assure you that you _are_ smart and that Wallace is notoriously hard on freshmen. When I say he’s a jerk, I _mean_ it.”

_Oh._

Oh, shit.

“But,” he continued, “totally valid in hating me after that. I get it. I got you. That would’ve been a douchey thing to say. _And_ I’m annoying in class.” He paused. “That’s it, right? I didn’t do something else super shitty, did I?”

“Uh. No.” She couldn’t wrap her mind around the revelation. “You’re not screwing with me, right? I just… misinterpreted what you said?”

“To be fair, I was pretty annoyed that day and spent a half hour arguing with Wallace in his office about Dionysus, so I probably would’ve sounded like an ass to anyone.”

“Shit.”

She didn’t know what else to say.

He cleared his throat and straightened on the step, looking awkward as hell and slightly pained. “Well, this is fun.” He cracked open another package of Scooby-Doo gummies. “So, you have to tell me; were you more of a Black Knight or a Miner Forty-Niner fan?”

  
  


* * *

> **11:23PM  
>  2%  
>  Lightbulbs remaining: 0**

The lightbulb burnt out because the world hated her.

At first, she thought Blake was fucking with her and had turned off the switch because that seemed like a Blake thing to do.

But he wasn’t.

_Her night just kept getting worse and worse._

Not only was she trapped in a basement with him, but now she was trapped in a _dark_ basement with him.

“Great.” She heard him shift around a bit and she strained her eyes to see _something._ Green spots danced in her vision from where she had been looking at her phone screen. “Tell me your battery will last if we use our flashlights.”

“We could use my flashlight for probably half a minute if we get desperate.”

“Shit. Same here.” His face was briefly illuminated when he clicked his screen on. Then, his eyes flicked to lock on hers and he grinned. “Not afraid of the dark, are you, Griffin?”

“We already discussed how murder is off the table tonight, so I’m feeling pretty good.” She set her phone to airplane mode and put it face down on the floor beside her, hoping that this would save the battery until the end of the night. “What about you? Any fears I should know about?”

“If I tell you now, you have to promise not to use it against me when we get out of here and we go back to normal.”

Clarke didn’t know why, but her chest tightened at that.

“I’m not a _monster,_ Bellamy.” She glanced down at her costume. “Despite what it currently looks like.”

She heard him snort. “What are you supposed to be anyway? I saw a lab coat earlier and scrubs, but something tells me it isn’t just Doctor Griffin.”

“I’m Frankenstein. Get it? Because people think Frankenstein is the monster, but really it’s the _doctor,_ so—”

“English nerd.”

“At least I’m not a Classics nerd.”

And, despite it all, she found herself smiling.

“I cross my undead heart that I won’t use your deep and dark fear against you once we get out of this hell-hole,” she told him.

“Was that a Frankenstein’s monster pun?”

“It was an attempt.”

He laughed. She wondered what his expression looked like in that moment. 

For the countless time that night, she cursed the burnt out lightbulb.

“Alright, _if_ we’re both in agreement that whatever happens in the bunker _stays in the bunker_ and we go back to normal tomorrow, I’ll tell you.”

Clarke grinned. “Sure. I promise.”

She heard the scratch of clothing against the floor and felt his foot tap against her own. The grin was wiped from her face. She swallowed thickly.

Desperately, Clarke reminded herself of lines. _Remember the fucking lines that you should not be crossing!!_

“I have this recurring nightmare every few weeks. I’m back in first-year and I just realized calculus wasn’t just a half-year course like I thought; it was a full-year course and I’m late for the final exam. _Horrifying._ I jolt awake sometime between running into the examination hall and taking the exam, but _yeah._ Excuse me, Princess, but why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re such a nerd.” Clarke knocked her foot against his to show her jest. “I should’ve known — you sat in the front row _every day_ and you always did your readings and _always_ answered the seminar questions first, but _oh my god._ Bellamy Blake is a nerd. A real, true nerd.”

She begged for someone to tell her why she found that so endearing.

“Like you aren’t one,” he countered, and she could picture his expression perfectly. It was one he often wore when joking around his apartment with Murphy; nose scrunched, corners of his lips quirked up, cheeks dimpled. “You went to the office _hours_ of a professor, Clarke. You care about your grades.”

“Of course I do! I wrote an eight-page paper listing all the reasons why I should get an A on my five-page paper before. I’m not denying that I care about school, I just find it hilarious that you do too.” Her head knocked against the side of the freezer when she tipped it back. “For the record, I have those nightmares too, but I wouldn’t classify them as _fears.”_

The silence that followed was too heavy for the statement she just made.

Distantly, she could hear the low reverberation of the bass and the chatter of people, but it sounded so far away. Now, the most forefront sound was _him._

_Bellamy._

She could hear his breaths from across the room, low and even. There was the clang of metal against metal, and the shuffle of clothing, and—

Clarke desperately tried to pull her mind away from him. She grabbed her phone again and hoped he wasn’t staring at her illuminated face.

(Except, was she really wishing that?)

* * *

> **11:37PM  
>  Number of phones still alive: 0**

“Failure.”

It was one simple word, but she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“That’s my fear. _Failing._ Not being good enough. Letting people down. Not meeting their expectations.” The laugh that followed was forced. “Good luck trying to use that against me tomorrow, Griffin. It’s not as easy as spiders or clowns.”

This time, when she bumped her foot against his, neither of them pulled away. The sides of their legs rested against each other’s, and that alone was more intimate than it had any right being.

“I get it,” she said. It was the most honest she’d ever been with him. It was terrifying and _exhilarating._ “For the longest time, I was _so scared_ to change my major because I knew my mom would hate it. I was so scared of not being the person she thought I was. There was a part of me who thought I’d be _failing_ if I wasn’t who she expected, but… Raven was the one to tell me it’s the exact opposite. I’m failing if I don’t stay true to myself.” She pulled her leg back and laughed. “Sorry. I’m making this about me when it should be about you and—”

“I like hearing about you.” _Then,_ his leg was back beside hers. Maybe she was more touch-starved than she realized, because it made her breath catch in her throat. “Guess we’re more alike than our mutual hatred for Professor Wallace, huh?”

“Guess so.”

Once again, she wished that the lights were on so she could see exactly what he looked like in that moment. She wanted to drink all the details in and _drown herself_ in his expressions.

(Fuck, she was a mess.)

“It’s nice to know that your fear of failure _also_ comes from your mom.” He sighed. “I love my mom — _of course I do —_ but I know she’s the one that instilled this deep and horrible fear of failing in me. When she had my sister, I don’t know how many times I was told that she was my responsibility. I’m fairly sure I became terrified of letting my mom down since then, and that’s sorta followed me through life. I’m just… _terrified_ to not be good enough.”

She didn’t know what possessed her to say it — it was Halloween, after all, so it very well _could_ have been a possession — but the words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them.

“You are good enough.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy like it was previously. Her chest might’ve been tight and her heart might’ve been _pounding_ but there was a lightness there, too.

“You are, too, Griffin. And you’re _smart,_ and _funny,_ and... It’s why I always argue with you. You can give it just as much as you can take it. You’re like fire.”

Fire was a _great_ word to describe the feeling rising in her chest and ravaging her veins.

“That’s why I wanted — _want —_ to get out of here so bad,” he continued to say. “My sister and I… we have this thing; we watch movies together on Halloween. We’ve always done it since we were kids, no matter what. One year, we were fighting over something so meaningless, and we still managed to watch _Halloweentown,_ as tradition demanded.” He let out a laugh. “I’ve been banking on this night for a long time because we’re not exactly on _great_ speaking terms right now.”

“Shit.”

He shifted uneasily. “I was supposed to leave Jasper’s party a while ago to make it home in time to see her. It just is super shitty that I’m missing that chance, _and_ I’d bet anything that it’ll look like I’m purposefully trying to avoid her, which will only make everything worse.” He let out a dry laugh. “I guess that’s just another thing I’m failing at, huh?”

“No. No, it’s not your fault.” It made sense now; the desperation to get out the door, the snappish attitude he had from the start, the comments about needing to get somewhere from the start. He was right earlier; he had _way_ more important places to be than she did. “It’s important to you and you’re missing it. That’s really shitty, but it’s not your fault.”

“You just said I’m missing it,” he pointed out. “That kinda makes it my fault.”

“No. It’s the door’s fault. It’s the one who locked us down here.” She felt frustrated on his behalf and, strangely, _protective._ That was a new one. “Instead of being with your sister, you’re locked down here with _me._ Like, yeah, that’s really shitty. You have every right to be annoyed right now.”

He hesitated — only slightly.

“Well,” Bellamy said, “it could be worse. I could’ve been stuck down here with someone else.”

 _That_ did funny things to her stomach.

Actually, it did funny things to her whole body. Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach swooped, and her head grew fuzzy, and—

Her thoughts spiralled. 

_Holy shit._

Bellamy Blake — while he was a jerk, he had always been as attractive as hell — was sitting _feet_ away from her.

In the dark.

Wearing a _toga_ and _eyeliner_ and _glitter._

They were alone.

And she was _almost sure_ he was flirting with her.

“I usually hate Halloween,” she admitted, “but this one has been tolerable.”

“Glad to see I’m _just_ tolerable. What, don’t like riveting discussions about Scooby-Doo?”

“I like them more than I like talking about Greek poets.” 

She pulled herself up from her seat on the ground, guided by her hand on the freezer. Despite being in the dark for a long while, she still couldn’t see anything. Clarke wished she had some foresight and saved the last percentage of her phone for this moment. She could’ve really used a quick flash of light to light a path.

Instead, she began making her way across the room, stumbling through the dark, and hoping with everything in her that she wasn’t going to step on Bellamy. Her hands were stretched in front of her, her eyes were wide, and each step she took was cautious.

“Still,” she said, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither of us have any say in that.”

“But we can be doing something more than just _sitting around._ I think the music is quieter than before and— _shit.”_

Despite each step being measured, she somehow managed to step _right on something squishy._ He let out a little yelp, and the floor was pulled out from under her feet, and she was _falling—_

“Ow. Shit. Are you okay?” His hand held the back of her head, stopping it inches from whacking into the floor, and their limbs were a tangled mess. They ended up sprawled across the floor together, their faces only _inches apart._

Suddenly, all thoughts vanished.

It was just her, and him, and the cold floor, and the moist air, and their mixing breaths. His hand was tangled in her hair, and their bodies were flush together, and—

She should hate this. Any night before this one, _she would have hated this._

(Right?)

(Except, that wasn’t right.)

(She might’ve hated him, but she never would’ve hated this.)

Clarke couldn’t see him, but she could _feel_ him. The faintest ghost of his breath against her cheek. The steady beat of his heart against her palm. The warmth of a touch along her spine. 

_Fuck,_ she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him on his _annoyingly_ stunning lips, and run her fingers through his absurdly beautiful hair, and swallow his shallow breaths, and grasp his shoulders, and—

 _“Griffin,”_ he breathed her name, his voice barely audible. “I’m—”

_Clarke was once again convinced that the universe hated her._

She flinched away as the basement was flooded with light when the door pushed open. She blinked frantically, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the light, and—

“Holy fuck.” Murphy stood at the top of the stairs, an ice bucket in hand and a gobsmacked expression on his face. “Uh. Hi?”

Bellamy lifted his hand in a partial wave. “Hey.”

_She missed the warmth at the back of her neck._

“Raven sent me for ice?” Murphy said, taking a single step down. “...whatcha two up to?”

Clarke decided to ignore him. She pulled away from Bellamy the slightest bit and let out an excited laugh.

“Go,” she told him. “You’re only running an hour behind and I’m sure your sister waited around and—”

Bellamy was already moving.

He jumped up from the ground and immediately took off up the stairs, leaving Clarke sitting in the middle of the basement alone, her chest aching and a sense of loss hitting her. It was ridiculous because how could she lose something she never had in the first place, but the crushing feeling was unmistakable.

(Maybe this heaviness — this weight — this ache was all for a lost moment, rather than a lost person.)

He was already out of sight by the time she pulled herself to her feet. Murphy remained in the doorway, his jaw dropped the slightest bit and his eyes wide, but said nothing.

“Ice?” she reminded him.

That pulled him from his shock. “Right. Raven likes her drinks cold. Isn’t that fucked up? She actually uses _ice._ In _everything._ Including milk.” His shoulder brushed against her as he passed. “I think I’m falling for her chaos.”

She laughed. “You know—”

_Clarke never got to finish that sentence._

Bellamy reappeared at the top of the stairs, his jaw locked with determination and his eyes burning with intensity. It was impossible not to smile as he ran back down the stairs, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Hi.”

“Hi. You should _go_ before—”

“I’d hate myself if I didn’t take this chance.”

With those words hanging in the air, he crossed the tiny space, cupped her face, and kissed her. 

She melted against his embrace easily and readily kissed him back. The material of his costume was thin under her fingers, and his hands warm against her back and neck, and _this —_ she decided — _was fucking fantastic._

When they broke, she was filled with the want to do that again — over and over, until she was dizzy and weak in the knees.

“I lied,” he said, breathing heavily. “Earlier. I lied. I could never go back to normal after this. I could never pretend that we are _just_ strangers. I don’t _want_ to.” His lips were on hers again, this time almost too quickly for her to process. A laugh bubbled up when they parted. “So, I’m not pretending that the bunker didn’t happen.”

“No pretending,” she agreed. Lightly, she shoved his shoulder. “But we’ll talk about it later. _You have to go.”_

She took a second to study his face — truly study it. It was the first time she let herself get fully lost in his beauty, with the wisps of his hair curling around his cheek, and the freckles that dotted his skin, and the scar on his upper lip, and his eyes that seemed to house the universe.

The moment was over before it truly began.

He backed away from her, a silly grin on his lips.

_It was a smile she hadn’t seen from him before._

“I’ll call you.” 

“Our phones are dead.”

“Tomorrow then. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Bellamy glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with Murphy. “I’ll get your number from him.” Then, he was running up the stairs again and that was that.

Her chest was still heaving when Murphy came to stand beside her. She had almost forgotten he was there.

“Well,” he said, his voice dry, “I think I missed something. I expected to find dead bodies down here, not… _that.”_

Clarke slowly turned to him, his words playing on repeat.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘expected?’ You did _fucking not lock us down here,_ did you!?”

He pursed his lips and turned away. “You can’t prove anything.”

“You know what,” she said, “you _are_ right. There _is_ going to be a dead body down here, and it’s going to be yours.”

“Hey—”

Clarke still hated Halloween, but just a little bit less after that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated, as always.
> 
> Paw  
> Find me on [Tumblr!](https://pawprinterfanfic.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
